Legend XXII – Ghor'Mal, Keeper of the Flame Moor

More about Legend XXII – Ghor'Mal, Keeper of the Flame Moor

It is said that deep in the west, where the sky never fully brightens and even the echo has forgotten how to repeat itself, lies the Flame Moor. It is not a place, but a state—a breath between life and death. The ground there trembles gently, as if a sleeping heart lay beneath it, and in the waters glows a light unknown to any ray of sunlight. Among ancient, mossy trees, whose roots reach out from the earth like fingers, lives Ghor'Mal—the last of the Moorwalkers. No one knows when he was born. Some say he is older than the water itself; others believe him to be an outcast god forgotten by the world. His skin is green like the rotting leaves of the deep, but when the misty light hits it, it almost seems to glow. Black lines stretch across his chest and arms—runes from ancient times, seared with both pain and power. In his right hand he holds a flame that does not burn, but remembers: the Soul Flame. Once, Ghor'Mal was a warrior of the Ograh, the ancient giants who kept the balance between fire and earth. His people were proud, powerful, and fierce, but Ghor'Mal wanted more. He heard the voices beneath the earth that promised him power—and he listened. On the night of the Seventh Sun, he summoned the fire spirits to win victory over the hosts of the North. But he did not know that every fire comes with a price. The spirits came in flames that no water could quench. They consumed friend and foe alike, until nothing remained of the land but smoke. When morning came, only Ghor'Mal stood tall—amid the burning moor he himself had created. The spirits bound him to this place, cursed to guard the fire he had unleashed. Since that hour, Ghor'Mal has been neither dead nor alive. His heart beats to the rhythm of the moor, and every night he rises from the water to test the light that never goes out. It is said that he speaks with the spirits of those who drowned in the moor. Their voices are the wind in the trees, their souls the glow in the reeds. Ghor'Mal knows each of them by name. He sings a song for them without words, a dull, vibrating hum that silences even the crows. The flame in his hand then flickers, and faces dance in its light—not strange, but familiar. His children, his brothers, his companions. They whisper to him that forgiveness is near, but it remains distant like the horizon above the fog. Many have come to find it: adventurers, priests, fools. Some sought the flame, others sought to break the curse. None returned. For the soul flame gives nothing, it takes. Those who see it realize the truth about themselves—and few can bear it.But Ghor'Mal remains, night after night. He wanders the swampy paths, testing the water, muttering old words long since lost to the world. He is the keeper of guilt, the guardian of balance. And sometimes, when the mist lifts and the moon hangs over the moor like a dim mirror, he can be seen standing on the bank, flame in hand, and he seems to smile.